


it's nobody's fault.

by highwaytune



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Battery City-Era Venom Brothers, Brotherly Affection, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memories, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Personal Headcanons/Self Projection, Self-Indulgent, The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, kobra was a very shy kid in bc, please just let the venom brothers get along for once asmr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highwaytune/pseuds/highwaytune
Summary: kobra goes too far and takes a trip down memory lane.
Relationships: Kobra Kid & Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	it's nobody's fault.

**Author's Note:**

> the title reference is from margaritaville, because i'm cool and midwestern.  
> also some bonus cw:  
> \- unreality? (kobra questions everything around him several times)  
> \- a very small drug cw for mentions of cigarettes  
> \- and a very small blood cw too, but nothing graphic of either of these

It hasn’t rained for as long as Kobra can remember, but each round bead hitting his skin pulls a vivid memory into his consciousness. He’s really not quite sure _where_ he is, but for now it doesn’t really matter -- everything fades around the edges until he’s seven or eight again, sitting next to his brother watching rain hit the pavement.  
  
Well, not really. He's watching the scene play out from afar, but it’s so real and so _there_ that he might as well have transported himself into the memories long forgotten, ones he kept tucked away at the back of his mind for days things weren’t going quite right. He can’t pull his eyes away -- the two dark-haired figures are talking about something, but Kobra can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s all just jumbled sounds, words that don’t quite make sense, syllables that don’t mean anything to him. He reaches a hand out, feeling the all-too familiar ache in his chest rise up and die down periodically. He wants to reach out and tell these two that they’re gonna be okay, that better days are coming, that paradise isn’t so far away after all. That red hair dye and sunglasses maybe aren’t such a crazy thought -- leather jackets and the Trans Am and friends that you’d take a raygun blast for are so close.  
  
But they can’t hear him, of course, because he’s sitting spaced out in the middle of Destroya knows where. The raindrops mix with the sweat beading up on his forehead, soaking through his shirt, dripping off his hair. It’s dark and the only sound out here is the faint echoes of someone playing Margaritaville -- or something like that. The stars provide him a little bit of familiarity before he’s pulled under again. And it’d be okay, he thinks, _if only he could swim.  
__  
_ He’s in Battery City again, he realizes, but this time he’s not watching -- he’s just reliving it powerlessly. It’s almost like a nightmare, but there’s nothing inherently terrible happening. Just sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic school chairs, a heavy pair of headphones on his ears pumping melancholy instructions and mind-numbing monologues about Battery City itself -- it’s enough to make him sick, honestly. Where there’s a little bit of room for control, Kobra takes it -- he runs his hands through hair that’s both his and not his, longer, darker hair cut with kitchen scissors by someone with an obscured face. The glasses on his nose are so familiar and yet they are not his own, because that was part of who he left in the city. A part of Kobra Kid still sits in the city, in an apartment with a number he remembers sometimes on the front door. In an apartment that is now used as a last resort, because to the people at the top it’s known as the place that not one, but _two_ citizens escaped from. Just shy of the legal ages to take care of themselves, just shy of being able to make something of themselves. Just shy of being completely brainwashed into every day being a better day. A calm voice pumps through his headphones, shaking him awake and telling him that class is over and that he can go home. Robotically, he stands and walks into the hallway where his brother is waiting, speaking softly about whatever scuffle he’d gotten into on that day as they walked home.  
  
Oh. The memory’s put out like a cigarette again, and Kobra finally stands up from wherever he’d been sitting, stretching and attempting to catch his breath. He’s hyperventilating, he realizes, and his head’s spinning like a tetherball. If he can get back home, in the company of the rest of his friends and his brother, things won’t be so loud. He can go back to mindlessly working on something rather than letting everything he’s kept locked for a year or two spill out, right? If only it were that easy.  
  
A-fucking-men. There’s another quiet night, one where he’s wearing all white and sporting a longer, darker haircut, but this time he is in no part of Battery City he remembers. It’s cold, uncomfortably so, but the presence of someone taller than him with an all-too familiar voice seems to ground him for a moment.  
_“Be quiet, okay? Stay still, close your eyes, breathe, and don’t panic, alright?”_ _  
_ Normally Kobra would recoil at being asked questions in succession, but, once again, he wasn’t himself anymore. He is someplace between being one of the Fabulous Four and being the nameless child he left in Battery City. No, he is not yet even a killjoy. He’s an escapee, a face on a missing poster with information underneath in black letters.  
  
He’s just a child, truly, holding onto the fabric of his brother’s City uniform and pushing tears away from his eyes as Exterminators shine bright lights just outside the little building they’re huddled together in. Nothing is quite right, nothing is tangible, and yet he cannot escape this oil-slick remembrance of how he became himself right alongside the brother he so frequently argues with.

He does not make a sound until the lights fade away, until he feels the tautness of his brother holding his breath leave, until he hears the engine roar in the direction of the city. And then, before he can stop himself from doing anything, a choked sort of sound escapes from his chest. He grips fistfuls of dark hair and feels his glasses slip from his nose, but nothing is quite as satisfying as tears running tracks in the dirt on his face, washing away the remnants of 'would-be's and 'might-have-been's. He’s hardly capable of remembering something this vivid, but by this age he’s seen things not meant to have been placed in the mind of a child. As much as the officials try to scrub the thoughts from his mind, he cannot hold the feelings away for very long, cannot lock away colors and music in favor of the smell of ammonia and the feel of crisp linen.  
  
Once again, he’s brought back by a familiar voice and someone else’s fingers combing through his hair. The reverb of a voice he’s shouted at a million times is softer now, just barely loud enough for him to hear. The voice he knows is two years older than him, and yet one that he associates with so much wisdom, so much authority. The owner of that voice knows everything about him and he hates it, but there’s nothing he can really do about it, is there?  
  
_“Hey, hey...calm down, okay? We’ve made it for tonight. That’s a start, isn’t it? It’s shitty right now and I know, but we’re one step further from Battery City. We’re-”_ _  
_ There’s questions, questions with no answers except for head nods and soft whimpering and arms wrapping around each other in an attempt to not freeze to death. Questions that should not make his head spin, because they are rhetorical, but that make Kobra’s chest hurt worse than the time he nearly shattered his ribs. There are more questions, more reassurances, but the occurrence curls up and turns to dust like burning paper.  
  
Another shuddering gasp, wide hazel eyes framed by wet eyelashes, and bloodied hands grasping for something that’s real. He’s not in fucking Battery City, he’s not a numbered citizen, his hair isn’t long and he doesn’t wear prescriptions anymore. He’s a killjoy, loud and colorful and always raring to go, isn’t he? He’s always moving, always nodding along to something, always getting in arguments. Things are fine as long as the bassline is there, things are okay as long as he’s not in Battery City. Things are fine when he’s shouting at his brother and his brother’s shouting back, things are fine when he’s sitting in the diner with a small someone who he sees a version of himself in, things are just fucking peachy all over when he’s not thinking. But nothing is fine right now, because the faraway music has faded and there’s no sun, because it’s two am and he’s somewhere nameless where it rains. Things are far from fine, really, and nothing feels real anymore. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? Because he’s here, this is _his_ red jacket and this is _his_ haircut and somewhere in his pockets those are _his_ sunglasses. His name is not anything you’d find on a passport; no, he’s Kobra Kid, and this is somewhere in the Zones, or at least he’s pretty sure.  
  
He hadn’t realized he’d been walking, but hitting his head on something or other seemed to knock him into place for a moment. _Breathe, and don’t panic._ Right. Head on straight, eyes locked onto a familiar constellation, and fingers tracing the seam of the lining of his jacket.  
  
Questions. He could stand for some questions right now. Normally he lets them blow past him like the hot afternoon wind, but tonight he needs a constant and to just analyze something real for a moment.  
  
First off, where the hell is he? The surroundings aren’t anywhere he can put a name to, but at least he can try. The silhouette of a phonebooth stands out against the rain -- that’s unusual. He remembers music coming from somewhere close-ish, so at least he can’t be too far from someplace inhabited, hm? Everything’s wet and nothing is shaped quite right. What about his crew? Are they looking for him? Are they worried, or throwing a “Fucking Finally!” party? Either’s probable, really. The blur of headlights from someplace close makes him shut his eyes and drop to the ground again. The last question on his mind connects with the blood on his hands, but it’s not so much words as a smudge of black against the loud blur of colors that are the questions in his head.  
  
Again, there is no Battery City here. This is Zone Two or Three, he knows, but again he’s not quite himself, and he’s standing in front of someone who’s not quite Poison either. There are no longer white uniforms, thank the Witch, but this is not his jacket either. This outfit, at least, is comfortably familiar -- their first attempt at real killjoy apparel before scrapping patchworks for uniformly colored leather. Again, the voice that has been the constant through all of his hellishness returns, but this time it’s a little more like the one he hears daily now. It’s got a little more kick, a little more desert-cultivated slant to it than what it had had in the memories before, and the hesitant usage of zone dialect almost makes Kobra laugh. He’s watching from afar again, smiling through bleary eyes at the sight of the two and hoping to pick up their conversation this time.  
  
_“You look like you just walked out of one of those propaganda posters,”_ the not-yet-Poison figure says, holding back a laugh at the sight of his brother in unmatched plaids and clothes that don’t quite fit the way they’re meant to.  
  
_“Yeah, right,”_ almost-Kobra says, huffing as he tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, _“You’re not lookin’ much better.”  
__  
_ _“Whatever. It’s better than City uniforms, and once we’ve got the time, we’ll get to looking a little more shiny.”_ Not-Poison brushes newly-dyed hair out of his eyes and grins, ruffling his brother’s hair before walking back inside the nearest building. If Kobra’s memory didn’t fail him now, that was the building from his third memory of tonight, the one in which they’d hidden from Exterminators.  
  
That one wasn’t long, but at least this time it didn’t hurt so bad. The nostalgia diffused through Kobra’s body, giving him enough energy to lift his head toward the headlights and the voice calling his name that he was sure was not a memory this time.  
  
“Kobra?” It’s Party, he realizes, shouting in the way that makes Kobra jump out of his skin.  
  
“I’m here,” Kobra sighs weakly, raising a rust-colored hand to block some light so he can see. “I’m right here.”  
  
The familiar clack of Party’s boots on pavement makes Kobra shudder, and the reason why he’s out here becomes a little clearer to him.  
  
“Hey,” Poison says, a little softer this time, kneeling down in front of his brother and the Trans Am. “I’ve been lookin’ for you, K.”  
  
“Sorry,” Kobra manages, not making eye contact. “I didn’t mean to make you guys come after me so late. Figured I could just...disappear for a little bit.”  
  
“Right, right. One of the most recognizable faces in the zones just fallin’ off the map for a while. _Got_ cha. Clever thinkin’, really,” Poison chatters, gripping a fistful of technicolor hair. “That’s like, the third time this month. You’ve gotta just talk to someone, ‘cause one of these days you’re gonna end up shot without any of us knowin’.”  
  
Even with the freezing rain pouring down Kobra’s back, he can’t stop the way his blood boils through his body. He’s always been a hothead, but with the way things have been going tonight, he’s more volatile than ever. “Ah! What a great idea,” he begins, voice shaking a little as his fingers struggle to gain traction on the rain-slick concrete wall behind him. “D’you think they get 'Crows out here this late, Party? Always wondered what it’d be like to be face-to-face with one again like that. Been a while. Wonder what our bounty’s up to now...probably a pretty penny, if I had to guess it.”  
  
“Just shut up and get in the car,” Party snaps, grabbing a handful of yellow t-shirt. “I’m half-asleep and drenched to the bone from lookin’ for you.”  
  
“That’s just it!” Kobra retaliates, jabbing a finger at his brother. “I don’t ask you guys to come looking for me, ‘cause I need some time to think! Nobody ever gets heated like this when you disappear for a while, nobody ever sends out a search party. So why can’t _I_ just disappear? You’re _always_ talking about wanting me gone, but when it happens you blow up! So which one is it, Poison? D’you want me dead in a ditch, or do you want me at home? I can’t take this back-and-forth shit, I need an _answer_. My whole fuckin’ life is _questions_ , and you never give me a straight answer.”  
  
Poison stares blankly for a minute, his expression scrunching into one of offense and disbelief. “Are you being fucking serious?”  
  
“No, I just wanted to give a little speech before we head home,” Kobra snarls, voice dripping sarcasm and venom alike. “ _Yes_ , I’m fucking serious.”  
  
“I can’t say I even have an answer for why nobody comes lookin’ for me, but at least I leave some kind of indicator when-”  
  
“Do you?” Kobra interrupts, pupils shaking as the bright headlights pour white beams onto his face. “I can’t count how many times I’ve woken up early and come looking for you around the diner to be met with _nothing_.”  
  
“Your skull is _so fucking thick_. It’s always on the outside of my door, folded once with a star on the outside. Ask Jet if you really can’t remember,” Party replies, shaking the water from his hair.  
  
Kobra pauses, his frustration melting a little. “I...I’ve never seen that before. I just kind of assumed you up and left, or something,” he mumbles, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Jet keeps all the notes in the kitchen in a little box behind the Power Pup, for some reason,” Party says calmly, relaxing his grip on Kobra’s shirt.  
  
“And nobody told me this whole time?” Kobra sighs, shuddering both from cold and irritation. “Witch. Sorry for all the cold shoulders when you finally turned back up, then.”

“It’s fine.” Party lets go of his brother’s shirt a little more, shaking his head before firing up again. “Seriously though.”  
  
“Do you have a straight answer, or was that discussion enough to end the conversation?”  
  
“Fuck’s sake, Kid. I don’t want you dead, not even remotely. The four of us’d never get along without you or any of us, ‘cause we all just click, and Gracie’d be heartbroken. We all just kinda set off into big-brother mode once you’re missin’ though. You’re a pain in the ass, and you’ve got more of a mouth than any of us do, but it takes all of us to be The Four.” At that, he pulls Kobra into a tight hug, combing his fingers through wet blonde hair.   
  
“Ew,” Kobra grinned, pushing his brother off of him, “You sound like a motivational poster or somethin’. Pull it together, Mister Face-of-the-Rebellion.”  
  
“C’mon, dumbass. We gotta get home before the sun comes up, and we’ve got a hell of a drive ahead of us.” Poison takes Kobra by the collar, but this time it’s in that insistent “we’ve-gotta-go” kind of way that Kobra doesn’t mind.   
  
-  
  
The car ride home isn’t nearly as lecture-filled as Kobra had expected; instead, it’s filled with songs pumping through worn-out speakers and playful insults with the occasional mumbled “don’t do that ever again” or “glad you’re safe.”  
  
As the Trans Am rolls to a stop beside the diner, the sun is peering up over the horizon and two brothers are climbing out of the car. There’s nothing much else to say, really, but Poison feels like he should leave some parting words.  
  
“Listen, Kid. I hate to get all soft again, but if you ever wanna talk about Bat City again, come ‘n’ find me. We’ll figure it out.”  
  
Kobra lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m alright. Thanks for lookin’ out for me, Pois. Wouldn’t ask for anyone else to have started a revolution with.”  
  
“Alright. Get yourself to sleep before Jet loses his shit, huh? He’s gonna give you the talk of your life when you get up, so be ready for that, I guess,” Poison snickers, kicking the door shut and walking inside behind Kobra.  
  
“‘Kay. G’night,” Kobra half-smiles lopsidedly before disappearing down the hallway, his wet jacket slung over his shoulder.

Battery City seems like it's a million miles away, but the reminder of why they left it behind _together_ has been right here the whole time. All it took was a couple of nasty flashbacks and some rain, it seems. Shame it doesn’t rain out here in the desert more -- they could make this a regular occurrence. Imagine if the Zone-famous Venom Brothers could get along...a revolutionary idea, truly.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! let me know what you thought about this fic over on my tumblr cherrikisser.


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